Velociman must be feeling indestructible.  I’m not quite sure exactly what was in that moonshine at the Blogfest, but it’s turned him into some sort of Nicholson-Joker self-destructive psychopath, daring God to strike him down:

I’ve always wanted to taste this most English of comestibles. A yeast
byproduct, I believe, and something one either loves or hates. Like
grits. Or scrapple.


Well, the lovely Christina is bringing some back for the V-hovel from England. Bless her.


I’m going to have a tasting, if anyone is interested. Of the Marmite, fools.


I’m thinking a consistency somewhere between peanut butter and apple
butter, with the flavor of a well-worn tie-rod end. If I’m lucky.

I had to eat Marmite’s bastard cousin, Vegemite, for four straight months while travelling in Australia.  Just because they don’t have peanuts down there, they scrape the bottoms of the giant brass brewery-urns out, and put it in jars and call it breakfast.  A well-worn tie-rod would taste downright subtle next to this filth.  Think chewing on Claude Akins’ fungus-lined toenails, licking out the crusty old toejam, then washing it all down with a can of flat Schlitz that has cigarette butts floating around in it; that’s pretty close.

Get the man some peanut butter.